Pyromaniac
by bluecascade
Summary: Johnlock AU in which John is a mental ward doctor and Sherlock is his patient. Lots of triggers, be warned.
1. Ward Three

**A/N: Hi! This my little AU fic, in which John is a mental ward doctor and Sherlock is his patient. This will have lots of angst, I believe. I hope you enjoy!**

"Doctor Watson to Ward Three, Doctor Watson to Ward Three." John nearly jumped off of his chair, his head springing up from its once-slumped position. Although the work of a mental ward psychiatrist was usually quite…interesting, to say the least, today had been not so remarkable. John was extremely grateful for something, anything to do.

"Coming," He replied, his words somewhat muffled by the crappy pager speakers. As he was walking, it truly sunk in that he was going to Ward Three. Ward Three, or just Three, for short, was where all the _really_ screwed up people went. John knew he shouldn't say "screwed up," but there was no other way to put it. That was where the people who cut their faces with scissors went. The _crazies, _as kids like to say. Perhaps today wasn't going to be so dull after all.

Sherlock had lost his will to fight. He could punch or kick or scream but he knew none of those things would work. All he could do was walk down the cold, bleached corridors and hang his head in defeat. They had already stripped him of everything, including his precious lighter. Of course his lighter. That was the reason he was in this place, after all. The lighter, the flames, the burns_. _Sherlock was fire, always burning, eternal. He did not belong in this icy, flickering fluorescent lights, chemical-scoured hospital. Sherlock did not belong in hell.

Some people, most actually, thought of hell as fire. For Sherlock, fire was heaven. It kept his mind clear. It fascinated him, the way the flames danced, the way they smelled when they scorched his alabaster skin, how they lit his cigarettes, how the smoke curled in wisps around his face, how the flame changed color if you added certain chemicals. He loved fire, and fire loved him.

Sherlock knew that burning yourself was not a good idea. He _knew. _He knew when he started, he knew when Mycroft yelled at him and dragged him to this horrid place. Sherlock wanted to strangle Mycroft, tell him he should never have brought him here. To this hell. _I DO NOT BELONG IN HELL. _

John walked past Wards One and Two and entered the calming cerulean halls of Ward Three. Another staff member, one whose name he did not know, ushered him into one of the side rooms, where the psychiatrist worked one-on-one with the patient. He could only speculate at who his patient would be today. John didn't expect a young man who looked completely normal (well, if ivory skin, raven hair and azure eyes was normal.) He glanced at the unnamed staff member in confusion. John couldn't see anything obviously wrong with the man in front of him. He could be someone who hallucinates, but those were usually in Ward Two. In general, non-visible mental disorders were in Wards One and Two. His colleague mouthed a single word at him. "Pyromaniac."


	2. Pulses

**A/N: Wow I have gotten so much attention for this fic already. Thanks so much! Enjoy this next chapter ****J**

John's lips form in a silent "O." He nods at the associate and enters the beige room (they were clearly too lazy to continue the blue theme in here.) John takes a minute to assemble himself, shuffling papers about and so forth. He notices his patient's file and mentally slaps himself. He really is off today, not even looking at the patient file beforehand. John continues his shuffling, although he doesn't know why. Something about his new patient is offsetting. He can't place why…it's on the tip of his tongue. Just as John began to drift into contemplation, the patient cleared his throat. Loudly.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, I didn't have time to collect myself before they called me here. I must seem terribly rude. I'm Doctor Watson, but you can call me John." He offered his hand to the man in front of him, who took it aloofly. As he did, his patient's sleeves hitched back and John noticed circular burn marks dotting the snowy skin like dark stars. He clicked his pen, black Inkjoy as always, and scribbled some notes.

As John shook his hand, Sherlock noticed how the man's calloused fingers pressed into his wrist. Taking his pulse? But why? As he pondered this, Sherlock began to deduce his doctor. Approximately 30 years of age, single, retired army doctor (must look into later,) shirt is three days old, no pets, recovering alcoholic…

"What is your name?"

"Can't you just look on my file?"

"Well, I could, but I'm not supposed to just treat you like a piece of paper, now am I? So what is your name?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And why did you take my pulse?"

John startled. "How…?"

"Simple, really. When you shook my hand, you pressed your fingers into my wrist, albeit subtly. Most people wouldn't pick up on it, but I'm not most people." John muttered a "No, you're certainly not," under his breath.

"I take my patient's pulses to rate how nervous they are about being here. Sometimes they act calm, but inside they're freaking out. You are not one of those patients. Given by your manner and your extremely normal pulse, you are quite bored."

Sherlock was almost impressed. Okay, maybe a little impressed. Just a smidge. "Correct."

"If you are so uninterested, then why are you here? Yes, I already know, but I want to hear it from the horse's mouth, so to speak."

"Like your receptionist friend said, I'm a pyromaniac."

"Why am I not surprised that you caught that? Anyway, next question. Did you check yourself in here?"

"No, my senseless brother did." John nearly rolled his eyes, but caught himself. He, too, knew the woes of siblinghood. His sister, Harriet, and he never quite got along.

After asking Sherlock all the necessary questions ("Do you self-harm?" "Yes,") John gave his patient two options: either continue their session, or go to his room and meet the other patients. Sherlock, being Sherlock, chose to continue talking to John, who turned out to not be so insufferable after all.


	3. Laughter Lines

**A/N: Hi! I hope this is a good chapter. And yes, Bastille chapter title reference. **

"Are you sure you want to stay here?"

"Yes, very. I'd prefer not to interact with other human beings." John wanted to ask, _then what makes _me_ so special? _But he didn't. He just nodded silently.

"So, Sherlock, tell me about yourself. Any interests? Passions? Hobbies?"

"Fire."

"Besides that, I mean."

"I'm a consulting detective, I sometimes do "experiments" as Mycroft likes to call them…" John didn't ask who Mycroft was because they had already established that he was Sherlock's "senseless brother."

"Consulting detective? I'm afraid I haven't heard of such a job." The curly-haired man sighed, like he had given this spiel too many times before, which he had.

"I made it up, I'm the only one in the world. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, the come to me. I deduce what they can't about a crime. I'm quite good at it, too; I can tell that you are an ex-army doctor, you're single, you don't have any pets, your shirt is three days old, and that you're a recovering alcoholic. Also, you're 30 years old. Am I correct?" John was shocked into silence. How was it possible that Sherlock could know all of that from a single look? He noted this talent, out of pure awe, and then looked to his patient, a pleasantly bewildered look on his face.

"How…?"

"Quite simple, really. Your shirt is heavily wrinkled, showing that (a) you don't have time to do laundry and (b) there's no one to do it for you. Although your shirt is dirty, being three days old, there's no visible pet hair on it. Additionally, your left hand has been in your pocket essentially this whole time, but when I saw it briefly, it was shaking slightly, a clear sign of PTSD. Oh, and you have a psychosomatic limp. You, the psychiatrist, see a therapist, for more reasons than one. Your alcohol problem is evident, because when you pulled out your phone, it was heavily scratched, even though you don't drink anymore. Or do you?"

"Wow. That was…amazing."

"That's not what most people say."

"What do most people say?"

"Piss off!" John laughed, and when he did, it was a beautiful thing, the way his thin lips tugged up at the corners and his eyes crinkled with premature crow's feet. And Sherlock laughed, too, but with less wrinkles and blue eyes and bow lips. So doctor and patient laughed together, forgetting, if only for a moment, the afflictions that had befallen them.

The moment was over, just like that, and suddenly, they were doctor and patient again, nothing more, nothing less. Or perhaps it wasn't. That moment was gone, but moments similar to it were soon to follow.

John checked his watch. "Oh shoot, you should be getting to dinner. I'm sorry to end our chat so soon, but food prevails. It's just out of here, to the left and straight down the hall, past the large potted plant. It was nice talking to you, I believe I'll see you tomorrow." John smiled at Sherlock as he gathered his belongings and walked out the door, his limp seeming to have disappeared.


	4. The Cheshire Cat

**A/N: Hehe.**

Sherlock mentally prepared himself for the chaos that dinner would create. _How long has it been since you've interacted with human beings other than Mycroft? John, you idiot. But he's _different. His social skills, what little he had of them, were so rusty from this use that Sherlock felt vines of anxiety wrapping around him. Pale hands shook slightly as frail, ruined lungs attempted to get enough oxygen. Sherlock felt himself spinning, slipping. Faster and faster into the darkness he went, like a twisted carousel ride. "Hey." Strong, warm hands gripped his cold, fragile ones, pulling him into the light, farther and farther away from the darkness. Sherlock looked up into comforting blue eyes. _John. _"Hey, what's wrong?" The detective gathered some breath before replying.

"I…what are you doing here? I thought you had to go."

"I forgot some papers and I turned back around. I'm glad I did…why didn't you tell me about this, Sherlock?" His tone was caring, not chiding. He was still holding Sherlock's hands, and it felt so… "Sherlock…"

"Huh? Oh…well…I myself did not know about _this _until now." John cocked his head, as if asking "_Really?" _"Well…I've had a few ah…panic attacks before I came here, but they were very sporadic."

"What do you think brought this attack on?"

"My social skills are lacking, and what I do have, they're very rusty."

"Ah…" John appeared concerned for a moment, and then brightened. "Well, I don't think the other patients will bother you, but if it helps, I'll sit with you."

Sherlock very much wanted John to sit with him. _This is so idiotic. He's your _doctor, _for god's sake. _So he sighed and said, "Don't you need to get home? I don't want to burden you."

"No, well, as you deduced, I have no one to get home to. I'd be happy to sit with you, I could use the company." Sherlock almost smiled with happiness. Almost. Okay, maybe he did smile. Just a little bit.

"Thank you."  
>-<p>

"So, over there, with the dark curly hair, is Tanya." John was telling Sherlock about all of the other patients, why they were there, and their ages. Sherlock had a feeling that John was breaking at least one confidentiality rule, but he didn't point it out. "She's schizophrenic, but she's nice. Likes fairies." "And that…" He pointed at a passing patient with slicked-back hair. "…Is Jim. Probably the worst of anyone, actually. Insane LSD addict. His voice is super unnerving, really sing-songy. To make matters worse, he's always signing some demented song."

Sherlock watched Jim sit down with a tall, scruffy, blond patient. "Oh yeah, his friend is Sebastian. Seb's another addict, but heroin this time. And nicotine. The two of them together…I can't even begin to describe." Sherlock passed his eyes over the two, and noticed Jim staring. He made the mistake of catching Jim's eye and got a maniacal Cheshire cat-like grin. He was grinning, but his eyes…Sherlock nearly shuddered. His eyes were endless ebony pools, void of all life and light.

"Anyway, you would like her, she's great…Sherlock? Are you okay?" Sherlock snapped back to reality.

"Sorry, I…I just drifted off I guess."

"It's fine, I'm sure you've got a lot on your mind."

"Yeah…sure." Jim's Cheshire cat face was still seared onto Sherlock's brain.

"Sherlock, you've got to tell me if something's wrong. I can't help you unless I know what the problem is."

"Nothing, it's just Jim gave me a…ah…unnerving look. He looked not unlike the Cheshire cat."

"Just ignore him, he can't do anything to you. Also…I don't know if this would make it better or worse, but he tends to give that look to people he finds attractive."

"Blech! God." John laughed at this, and so Sherlock laughed too. For a moment, they forgot how screwed up they were. They forgot that they were in a mental ward. All of that melted away into pure, amber honey happiness.


	5. Distraction

** A/N: Sorry I'm reuploading this with some edits, as per stayingalivesherlockian's suggestion. Thanks!**

"I'm very sorry to say this, but looks like dinner's over." Sherlock momentarily startled as he saw patients streaming out of the cafeteria.

"Oh. Goodbye then, John. It was nice eating with you."

"You too. I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, by the way, after dinner is free time until nine, and then you have to go to bed. Lights out at ten." John turned to leave.

"Wait. What does one do at 'free time?'"  
>"You can watch a movie in the movie room, or you can do stuff in the non-movie room. Play games, talk, whatever. Interact with other patients." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You have to meet them <em>sometime. <em>They're much more interesting than some dull doctor." Sherlock wanted to say no, no, you're absolutely _not _dull, but he didn't. He just said goodbye as John limped out of the cafeteria.

After John left, Sherlock peeked in the movie room to see what they were playing. It was some stupid romantic comedy. So much for avoiding interacting with people. And so he went to the non-movie room, praying that Jim and Sebastian weren't there. He entered the room and…

"Hello, pretty boy. Who are _you?_" The lecherous twat. Sherlock expected Sebastian to join in, but he just looked cross. He immediately deduced that Sebastian was Jim's boyfriend, but Jim was constantly hitting on other patients.

"Not remotely interested in you."

"Oooh. Playing hard to get, are we?" Sherlock had half a mind to set him on fire.

"Seriously? Your hitting on me is extremely childish. I highly doubt your intellect is anywhere close to mine. Therefore, I am completely and utterly 'out of your league.' Not to mention your boyfriend looks as if he wants to murder you." That seemed to shut Jim up. Sebastian gave Sherlock a look that was almost grateful.

Sherlock found himself wanting to be alone, and so the detective flopped down on a nearby sofa. He watched all the noise and calamity around him, feeling like an outsider watching from behind glass. People were moving in blur, laughing and talking and just _being._ There was Tanya from the cafeteria, playing cards with a bespectacled redhead. And there was Sebastian, looking like he wanted a drink. A group of girls were playing some kind of board game, but it instead of actually playing they were throwing the little plastic playing pieces at each other and laughing. He took in all of their colors, all of the minutiae of their lives. He deduced and deduced until he couldn't deduce anymore.

Soon, free time was over and Sherlock was shown to his room, a sterile box with only the essentials. A cold, hard, bed did everything but help him sleep, not that he slept much anyway. As he lay awake in the dark, his mind ran rampant. Sherlock supposed all of this was just a distraction, to keep himself forgetful of why he was here and what he was without. But there was no one left to analyze in his dark prison, and reality was sinking in. He was in a mental hospital, without anything to light. No cigarettes, no lighter, nothing. He could feel boredom, and the panic that accompanied it rising in his chest. Sherlock's hands ached to feel the heat of a flame, to see the rosy beast fill his hollow heart.


	6. Relapse

**A/N: Yes! They're finally starting to like each other...huehue ;)**

"…I think, sometimes, humanity tries to put people in neat little boxes. You're a girl, you're a boy, you like girls, you like boys. We box and box and box people until they can't move, until they can't breathe. And that's where you get rebels. People who have been boxed so much they can't breathe and so they explode, not caring who they take down with them."

"Yeah, okay, Mr. Philosopher Rebel. You still nearly caught the whole building on fire."

Sherlock was sitting in John's office, charcoal still lingering on his fingertips and in his hair. The detective was silent. "Sherlock." More silence.

Sherlock didn't regret his actions for an instant. He hated this place, with all its faux cheer and dreary interior. Sure, he like John, but he was someone he would certainly lose touch with when he got out. _If _he ever got out. Not to mention the hospital was _so _boring. So very, very dull. Duller than a…okay, never mind. This is stupid. "Sherlock. What caused this?" He didn't feel like talking to John, or anyone really. All Sherlock wanted was to burn this hellhole to the ground. So he crossed his arms and remained silent.

"_Sherlock._" He could tell he was testing the doctor's patience now. He smirked. "_What do you have to say for yourself?" _Sherlock didn't have anything to say for himself. He could make up some remorseful bullshit, but that's not how he worked. He was too arrogant for regret.

"I can tell you think that I will tolerate this, but I won't. Clearly I was wrong in having you talk to me about this. I thought you might be more comfortable talking to me than another doctor. I guess I was mistaken. Go back to your room, and then I'll see who else is available to talk to you." Sherlock shot straight up. _No, no, no. _He couldn't see another doctor, no. _More attached than you thought, huh? Oh, shut up. _

"No! I'll talk to you."

"Ah. There we go. I'm sorry I got so frustrated, that wasn't very professional of me."

"…It's fine."

"So. Explain yourself, Mr. Pyromaniac."

"After that first night, I was just craving to light something. So I snuck out, picked the lock to the kitchen, and stole a lighter. I took it back to my room and lit the bed."

"How did you know there would be a lighter in the kitchen?"  
>"I saw one in the pocket of a cook's apron earlier that day. The cooks always leave their aprons on hooks in the kitchen, so I took it from there."<p>

"And how did you know how to pick locks?"  
>"I taught myself as a child. Also, I sometimes need to pick locks on cases. Quite a useful skill, actually."<p>

"I'm actually somewhat impressed. Don't tell anyone I said that."

"Who is there to tell?" John gave him a look.

"Well, clearly you'll be punished for this, most likely solitary confinement for week or two. I can try and lessen it, but on one condition."  
>"And what is that?"<p>

"You see me every day that you are in solitary confinement." _Yes, yes, yes. _

"That's a suitable arrangement." John was surprised. He expected Sherlock to protest, or to just take the longer punishment. The doctor claimed to his superiors that seeing Sherlock everyday would make sure he stayed out of trouble, but secretly he just wanted to spend time with him.

"Just so you stay out of trouble." Sherlock caught the doctor's lie, but didn't say anything for his own motives were exactly the same. He didn't know what he felt for John, but it wasn't just friends.


	7. Somehow

**A/N: Yay yay happy happy fluff fluff.**

It was day three of his solitary confinement and Sherlock was bored. So bored, he could…light something on fire. He rolled over in his creaky bed, trying to shut his thoughts down.

It was no use.

Luckily, they kept his door unlocked at night. He silently slipped out the door and tiptoed down the hall, only to run into one of the supervisors having an illegal smoke. Sherlock must have caught the poor girl off guard, because she looked ready to scream. "Shhh!"

"What are you doing here? You should be asleep." He immediately deduced that she was afraid of losing her job for smoking.

"I won't tell your boss about this if you give me a lit cigarette." Sherlock felt childish for reducing himself to petty bribery, but it worked. The wide-eyed supervisor lit another cigarette and shakily handed it to him. The detective gave her a nod before making haste back to his room, taking care not to extinguish the cigarette.

John woke, hair mussed from sleeping on his desk. Again. "Mmph." He looked at his watch. It was already well past midnight; nobody had bothered to wake him. Looks like he was stuck spending the night at the hospital again. _Might as well check on Sherlock. _

Why was he doing this again? Was he really checking on Sherlock from a doctor-ly standpoint? Or because of something else? _No turning back now._ John's feet made hushed clicks on the linoleum floors as he made his way to Ward Three.

Sherlock pressed the still-burning cigarette to his forearm, hissing in pain. _You're getting weak. _He shook his head as if to clear the thought, pressing the cigarette harder into his milky skin.

He was just about to do his other arm when a hand knocked the cigarette out of his hand and crushed it on the floor. "Stop that this instant." Sherlock looked up to see John standing there, his hair wild and his tie askew. _Sleeping at his desk for the second time this week. Came here to… _His thoughts were interrupted by strong hands grabbing his arms and turning them up, running calloused fingers over scattered scars. John was murmuring something about not doing this to himself. Sherlock hung his head, almost feeling like he'd disappointed the doctor.

"Sherlock, you can't keep doing this."

"I know."

"Sherlock, look at me. Look me in the eyes and promise me you'll never hurt yourself again." The detective looked into John's hazy blue eyes, his arms still in the doctor's hands.

"I…I promise."

"Good." John moved, placing himself next to Sherlock on the bed, still never letting go of his arms. "Sherlock…why?"

"I don't know if you want to know." He had long since broken eye contact with the doctor and continued to avoid his gaze.

"I do." So Sherlock explained everything, how his mind was so powerful that it overwhelmed him. He told John how burning cleared his mind, made him think without a million mental pop-up ads vying for his attention. Once he started, he couldn't bring himself to stop. He supposed, in a twisted sense, that it was better than the drugs he used to do as a teenager. He told him about better things, too, like cases he'd solved as well as Lestrade and the Scotland Yard's antics. John listened intently, occasionally pausing to ask Sherlock to repeat something if he talked too fast.

Somehow, John's hand ended up intertwined with Sherlock's.

Somehow, they talked until the doctor fell asleep, his head on the detective's shoulder.

Somehow, they fell in love.


	8. Tangled

**A/N: I'm so sorry for not updating, I was sooooo busy! Also, I'm sorry for the really crappy, short chapter.**

Sherlock woke, his limbs tangled with John's. He immediately startled and jumped out of bed, rousing the doctor in the process.

"Mmmph?" John rubbed sleep out of his eyes. Sherlock attempted to dart out of the room, but not before John caught him. "Where are you going?"

"I…I'll just be…off…then," he stammered, cheeks flushing.

"No you should stay awhile…c'mere."

"John, you're delirious from sleeping too little. You need to work. Just…please go."

"…I love you." Sherlock stopped and turned back around, a deer caught in headlights. _He's just tired. He doesn't mean it. None of this means anything. _"I mean it."

"You hardly even know me. Stop." The doctor looked straight into Sherlock's eyes with a piercingly miserable gaze. "John, no…you can't. I'm not…"

"Not what?"

"I am a sociopathic pyromaniac, John!"

"So?"

"And you're my _doctor_! How many rules are you breaking right now? Why are you risking your livelihood for me? You can't do this to yourself! I'm not worth it!" Sherlock was angry now, his fists clenching as he paced the small room.

The room was filled with a tangible silence. Sherlock had run out of steam, his face buried in his hands, curls spilling through the cracks in his fingers. John just watched him, wondering what had gone wrong.

"Sherlock…"  
>"Mmph…"<p>

John moved to stand in front of the detective, pulling his hands off his face. "Stop...Aren't you going to get fired for this?"

"Sherlock, I don't give a damn if I get fired."

"You should care. I don't want to ruin your life."

"You are _not _going to ruin my life." The doctor stepped closer, pulling Sherlock's lips to his before immediately pulling back. "I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean…I'm sorry if I moved too fast. I…"

"No…" Sherlock grabbed the doctor before kissing him for real, John startling before sinking into the kiss.


	9. A Wan Smile

**A/N: So sorry about the long-ish hiatus, I was really over worked with school, and I had major writer's block.**

"Please, have a seat." The door swung shut as Sherlock stepped into John's office, the slightest hint of a smile on his face. John's eyes followed him as he placed himself next to the doctor on a saggy grey couch, their knees just barely bumping together.

"Hi." Sherlock placed a gentle kiss on John's forehead.

John closed his eyes, rolling the feeling of Sherlock's lips on his skin on his tongue like soft caramel. "Hi."

"Any questions for me today, Doctor Watson?"

"Patient is unusually agreeable…" The detective smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Hmm? Like why a respectable man like you would like a mess such as myself?"

"Shush yourself. I have to actually do my job, you sod."

Sherlock pursed his perfect bow lips. "Mmm."

There was a pause, a transition, really, from playful romance to serious business. Eventually, John took a deep breath and spoke.

"Do you want to ease into this question or take the plunge?"

The detective's muscles visibly tensed up. He knew they would get to this question sooner or later. He had procrastinated the inevitable for long enough. "Just get on with it."

"Have you ever been physically or mentally abused, either by a family member or a partner?"

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing. "Yes." His usually rich voice had gone quiet, barely audible even in the baited silence of the room. "I was in college…he was so…kind to me. Most just…insulted or ignored me. He treated me like a normal human being, not like some…freak."

"You're not a freak." Sherlock appeared not to hear, pushing on.

"But, about a month after we started dating, he became extremely…protective. He didn't let me talk to the few friends I had, and if even so much as _looked _at another male, he would…he would…"

"Take your time."

"In public, he would just glare at me and pull me away, but at home…" Sherlock removed his shirt, revealing a constellation of scars. John whispered a soft "No" under his breath and moved to hold the detective, who buried himself in the doctor's chest. "It went on for…three months before I got out of it. I tried to break up with him, he…went and got himself piss drunk, threw some bottles at me. I wound up in the hospital, and he…he got arrested." Sherlock took a deep breath. "My family was furious, of course. They got him some insane amount of jail time, but it still doesn't fix what he did…so I turned to drugs, at first…and then fire…" He trailed off, tears flowing freely down his face, some catching in his cheekbones before finishing their descent to his shirt. "But look at me now! He branded me, like a filthy farm animal. I scream 'broken.' No one could ever want me like this." A choked sob escaped Sherlock's throat.

John took Sherlock's face in his, calloused thumbs stroking his cheeks. "Shh…_please _don't say that. You are absolutely beautiful." Sherlock hiccupped, a wan smile cracking his lips apart.


End file.
